


Something So Wrong

by FanOfFandoms



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanOfFandoms/pseuds/FanOfFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her appearance and frustration fueled his need for inspiration. His timidity and reluctance frustrated her immensely. And, suddenly, Jehan's shyness wasn't so accidental. (Jehan/Éponine) *I DO NOT OWN LES MISERABLES*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prologue of Sorts

The petite gamine who often caught his eye was a spirited character to say the least. Yes, when trailing after Marius, she appeared lovesick and a little desperate, but all it took was a single joke made by one of the Amis and Pontmercy's shadow would transform into someone much more capable of bodily harm.

That was what  _really_  captured Jehan's eye.

*. . .*

The young man that caught her eye annoyed her. She would stand in the Musain, Marius having left to talk to Enjolras or one of his other friends about the upcoming revolution, university, or another topic that would just confuse her completely, had she decided to listen in.

So instead, she took to watching her surroundings. Despite the decision she had made to ignore Marius' unawareness when it came to her affection, Éponine would like to think that she was good at reading people. From her usual spot in the corner of the Musain, she deduced that many of the men around her were passionate young people, who were willing to fight, and die if the need arose, for a noble cause.

When first meeting them, she found them all to be loud, flirtatious and somewhat childish. But, for the sake of Marius, she made it her goal to get to know these people.

In the coming months, she found them all to actually be normal, despite their first expressions; mostly starved of any proper female contact, they were unsure of how to act around her. Well, that's how it was at the start. Éponine quickly became a part of Les Amis de l'ABC, and even Enjolras came to appreciate her views, despite his inner bourgeois protesting that having a woman involved in such a dangerous plan was preposterous.

However, there was one man who stood out from the rest. Jean Prouvaire, though rarely known by the Amis as anything but 'Jehan', was quiet, consoled and even a little shy. Though devoted to the cause, his passions centred on that of poetry and, she'd heard, music. His very being emitted a tone of innocence, and his timid nature always seemed to win out in a heated debate.

And that was what  _really_  captured Éponine's eye.

They were two observant people, both committed to a noble cause, both of whom would be willing to die for their friends. What neither realised is that their separate passions, something of an escape from the revolution would be what brought them together:

The love for an art so expressive that it could make grown men cry;

And a love for a man so blind that even the most obvious of gestures was missed.

* * *

It was early one evening when the two's lives first collided. Jehan, as usual, was walking to the Musain precisely forty-three minutes prior to the scheduled meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC. There was so much inspiration to be offered by an early summer's eve, with the sun lazily drifting across the sky, leisurely waiting for the night to take over.

As he walked down the cobbled street towards the cafe, he smiled as a group of young children, undoubtedly living on the street judging by their clothes and skinny complexions, dashed past, laughing merrily as they chased each other towards the slums. Mostly certain that the other members of the group missed it, Jehan often noted that many of the children living in the poverty that littered Paris' streets were almost always joyous, never once taking even the smallest things for granted. He'd like to think that they were some of the most uncorrupted human beings to ever have lived.

Sighing contentedly, he pushed through the doors of the cafe, walking to his usual seat at the edge of the room. He thanked the waitress who brought him his usual cup of tea and a slightly warmed croissant, before gazing out of the window, happy to simply watch the city outside and wait for inspiration to hit him.

Usually, it would be a further thirty minutes before Enjolras arrived, and another fifteen after that until the other members fell through the doors, laughing or chatting, drinking in Grantaire’s case, overall just enjoying life.

But not tonight.

After just twelve minutes (during which Jehan had counted eleven birds, thirteen couples and three stray dogs wandering past his window), the doors of the cafe opened once again, and a familiar figure stepped in.

Éponine was shivering, though the evening was warm and she had a shawl wrapped around her quivering shoulders. It was then when Jehan noticed that she didn't so much  _step_  into the cafe, but rather  _stumbled._ Being the gentleman that he was so often teased about, he dashed forward, holding her elbow to keep her steady as she almost fell to the floor.

"Are you, er..." he muttered, the close intimacy between him and the girl suddenly making him a tad awkward, "... alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine." She snapped, her eyes cold and hard as she glared at him. He stood back, his hand lingering on her arm for a second longer before he pulled away completely.

"Well," he said shakily, "Alright then." And with that, he found his way back to his chair, and resumed his staring out the window, though his mind was now elsewhere.

He had never before so much as spoken to Éponine, let alone engaged in any physical contact. He often saw Grantaire and Courfeyrac pulling her onto their laps, holding her hand and stroking her hair, always as a joke which infuriated her to no end, but he had always wondered at how they were comfortable with such acts of intimacy when Éponine was only a friend.

Now, here he was, alone in the cafe, where she was also alone, still standing in the spot where he had left her just moment earlier, and he had just made a rather pathetic attempt at trying to get to know her, even if it was getting to know how she was feeling at that exact moment in time.

*. . .*

Éponine also stood bewildered, unsure of why she had snapped at the man who was so hard to dislike. Yes, she had a hard exterior, her years living on the streets had ensured that, and, yes, after yet another drunken beating from her father, she had every right to be touchy.

But Jehan had approached her in kindness, enquiring as to whether or not she was alright. It was an innocent question, asked by an innocent person, who has apparently so unsure as to how he should talk to her.

And that was what infuriated her. His timidity, though somewhat reasonable considering her current appearance and actions, was totally uncalled for. They had known, if their relationship would allow use of the word, each other for almost two years, and, true, they had rarely spoken (in fact, Éponine couldn't recall a single incidence in which they had conversed at all), but they at least knew  _of_  each other, and surely that was enough to not be nervous in her presence.

Sighing, she made her way carefully over to his table, sitting down in the empty seat opposite him without invitation. He glanced away from the window, shock etched across his face; Éponine barely stopped herself from sneering.

Jehan opened his mouth to speak, about to ask if she was alright again, but he shut it, reconsidering.

"...Good evening, mademoiselle." He said eventually, his voice soft and careful. Éponine groaned.

"Why must you be so infuriatingly timid?!" she questioned, her voice harsher than it needed to be, "I'm sure you have questions?" she waiting impatiently for an answer.

"Not... not as such, no," he said, slightly aghast at her irritation. He was quite confused as to what he had done to insult or annoy her, "Although, I can assure you that that fact is changing by the second..."

"Why would you approach me, if not to enquire as to why my current appearance is as it is? Or as to why I'm here earlier than usual?  _Or_  as to why I'm here alone?" Jehan could only shake his head, utterly baffled by her accusations; was it too hard to believe that he was simply trying to be nice?

" _Well?!_ " Éponine questioned, her fingers tapping the table as if the act would somehow make the man answer faster; honestly, he was acting like a mouse faced with the challenge of crossing a bakery without fear of being chased by an angry baker!

"I... I was, er... I..." he stammered, not being able to string more than two words together. Éponine sighed dejectedly, leaning back in her chair, her shawl falling from her shoulders to the crooks of her elbows in the process of her doing so.

It was then that Jehan finally understood what she had meant when she questioned if he wished to enquire about her appearance; her arms, thin, much like the rest of her, from years on the streets, were littered with bruises, old and new, the worst appearing around her wrists in a pattern that looked suspiciously like fingers. On her upper arms, scars could be seen, varying in length, all the same width; they were also arranged in a kind of pattern, though this one was much more erratic than that of the bruises, which seemed to just clump together.

Jehan found himself staring, not out of the window anymore, but at the girl before him, finding more inspiration in her appearance than he ever had looking out of a window. He had a sudden urge to write furiously, to put all of his thoughts and feelings regarding a Mademoiselle Éponine Thénardier, into words on a page so as not to forget them ever again.

But he stopped himself. For he felt that simply starting to write in front of someone who was currently very annoyed at him was probably only sensible if he wished to get shouted at again.

"I only wanted to make sure that you were alright." He said, quietly, looking down at the table to avoid her eyes meeting his, sure that the previous coldness that had resided in them would probably give him more inspiration than he could currently deal with.

"Then why didn't you just ask, like a normal person?!" Éponine growled. The way he looked down, almost as if he was ashamed, only angered her further; now he couldn't even look her in the eye! What cowardice...

"I, erm... I didn't want to pry," he murmured, "Everyone has their business after all." She scoffed, getting up and leaving the table without so much as a 'good evening' as a farewell.

* * *

Jehan was fidgety that night. Everyone noticed, even Enjolras, who was normally so focused on keeping the meeting on track that he actually forgot that he was surrounded by people.

"Jehan, are you quite well?" Joly asked him, "You haven't stopped moving all night! Have you acquired some kind of... neurological tick?!" Jehan merely smiled wryly and shook his head, much too embarrassed to tell his friends of his previous encounter with Éponine.

*. . .*

Éponine meanwhile was furious. She, too, had noticed Jehan's discomfort, and noted that it started the second she had left him alone again. Enjolras had arrived after ten minutes of her leaving, and the two had exchanged a nod as they acknowledged each other, before he began setting up for the meeting and Jehan turned once again to stare out of the window.

The Amis had started to arrive a while after that, many of them settling down with a drink, waiting for the inevitable time when Enjolras told them to shut up so that he could make yet another speech about his beloved revolution. Though they all found him inspiring and he never once had repeated an idea in the same way, sometimes it would be nice to simply talk and relax without having to think of the upcoming revolution.

In all this time, Éponine had watched them all, but most notably Jehan, from her seat in the corner. And the timid little man had not stopped moving for a second.

*. . .*

Little did Éponine realise that the revolutionary that had so infuriated her was watching her as well. They were watching each other, their observations giving each of them the same answer.

For Éponine, her observations annoyed her to no end, and made her wonder what it was about the timidity of one person that had gotten her so worked up. He was nothing special after all; just another revolutionary. She was in a room surrounded by people who shared that title.  _So why him?_

For Jehan, his observations gave him so much more inspiration than he could currently work with; the way her eyes lit up with anger, the way her face hardened whenever she looked to him when she thought he wasn't looking, the bruises and scars that she tried so desperately to hide as she laughed along with her friends. He was unsure if the laughs were real or forced, which just gave him further inspiration; she was a girl who so desperately tried to hide herself, whilst simultaneously giving so much more about her away.

Through all of this, however, they both came to the same conclusion:

_They would most definitely be meeting again._


	2. Every Day Something More

Jehan found that he couldn't keep the feisty woman, who had inspired him so much in so little time, out of his head. Whenever he wrote, he found himself relating it to her, had the idea not come from her in the first place. And many ideas did come directly from her, for, each day, he found himself seeing something in her that he hadn't seen the day before.

*. . .*

Éponine was in a similar situation; the little man who had infuriated her so seemed to change over the coming days. She couldn't always place what it was about him, but something different always caught her eye.

*. . .*

On the first day after their argument, Jehan noticed the disheartened look that graced Éponine's face from the moment he saw her leaving her house (if it could be called that) at around half past seven in the morning until the moment she first saw Marius at the meeting that evening.

On that day, Éponine noticed the light blush that covered Jehan's cheeks whenever she caught him looking at her... or had she been staring at him and  _he_  had caught  _her_? She wasn't sure, but, either way, her gaze turned steely in a matter of seconds, and his face would go slightly pink before he turned away.

*. . .*

On the second day after their argument, Jehan noticed the limp in her step as she walked through the doors of the Musain, once again early for the meeting. This time, however, he was just coming in behind her. She managed to get herself to a table, before collapsing into the chair. Jehan was about to approach her, before reconsidering; he didn't think he wanted another argument so soon. He had far too much inspiration as it was, and there was something about the way her eyes filled with something suspiciously like passion when she got angry... and he was off again, this idea striking him as the perfect topic for a poem.

On that day, Éponine noticed Jehan's reluctancy to sit down opposite her. He had stood there for a moment, about to step towards the table where she was situated, before rushing off to his table by the window, taking a piece of parchment and a pencil out of his bag and scribbling away for over an hour, well into the meeting.

*. . .*

On the third day, with no meeting scheduled for the Amis, Jehan wondered if he'd see the young woman who had so captured his life. He didn't think she'd appreciate his going out of his way to see her. But, then again, that was what he needed: her feistiness, her anger, her  _frustration_... that was where his inspiration came from. So he set out to find the gamine, hoping that she would provide more fuel for his now exhausted motivation.

On that day, Éponine found herself missing the young man who had angered her so. It was strange, but she felt like some kind of bizarre connection had formed between them. She wasn't yet sure whether it was a connection of friendship, or a connection of dislike, but it was a connection nonetheless. She wondered if he would still be the shy man she had first argued with (or rather argued  _at_ ) when she next saw him, or whether he had noticed the connection as well.

*. . .*

The two's paths crossed again later that morning. Éponine was on an errand for her father, handing scrawled notes to members of the Patron-Minette, something about a raid that evening. It wasn't easy, what with her twisted ankle from two nights ago when she had tried to escape from her father's grasp, and the bruised ribs she had as a result of her attempt to flee, but she was managing.

Jehan was searching the crowds at the market, knowing that this was usually where Éponine could be found during the day (he had heard Marius say it many times after all: 'I'm going to meet 'Ponine at the market', 'the market's where 'Ponine will be', 'I wonder if Éponine is at the market yet...'). Every so often, he thought he spotted her, talking to this man, or that man, but by the time he got close enough to look properly, she was gone.

*. . .*

By lunchtime, Jehan was beginning to tire in his plight to find Éponine. He had been searching all morning, and yet, still, the gamine evaded his sight.

Éponine had also been on the lookout for Jehan, knowing that the young poet often took walks around the city; she had spotted him, after all, walking along, through the market, down the street, into the park. Such things as a man whistling a happy tune as he walked through poverty-stricken streets caught the eyes of many. Éponine supposed Jehan should count himself lucky for that: it was so very unusual for Éponine to follow the crowd.

But she had noticed him. And he had noticed her.

* * *

It was mid afternoon when he spotted her. Not within the time during which he was searching for her, but after he had given up and was making his way home.

There she was, calm as anything, leaning on a wall just inside an alleyway. He face was composed, her shawl pulled around her, her injured foot lifted off of the ground as she put all her weight on her unhurt limb.

And she spotted him too, though she kept her face as unreadable as she could to avoid him noticing her recognition; she couldn't bear to see that blush again. It infuriated her to no end that  _he_  was embarrassed when she was in the situation she was in. Living the life she lived. The way he looked at her was if... was if he knew so much more about herself than she had let on. And that certainly wasn't allowed.

*. . .*

Jehan approached her carefully ( _like a mouse_ , Éponine noted to herself,  _always like a little mouse_ ). When he reached her he didn't know what to say for a moment; what  _should_  he do? He had to anger her. Yes, that was what it was. And so, he took her hand in his, kissing it gently.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle."

Éponine was shell shocked; what had just happened?! He had started a conversation. He had willingly invited her to talk to him. Not only that, but he had called her 'mademoiselle', a term only ever used for distinguished bourgeois girls with rich fathers and mothers who stayed at home all day ordering the servants around. Miss Éponine Thénardier certainly did  _not_  fit into  _that_  category.

"I don't think so, monsieur," she said quietly, looking away from him.

"Oh," Jehan said, genuinely surprised and a little bit shocked that the gamine was still composed; he often heard her tell Courfeyrac and Grantaire to stop called her 'mademoiselle'. Why was it different with him? "Oh... alright then." And with that, he dropped her hand as if it were on fire.

Éponine groaned, "Why must you be so..." she struggled to find the word, for he wasn't timid anymore; no, this man was not a coward. But he wasn't quite as infuriating as she remembered. What was he? "So... You?!" she demanded. Jehan chuckled.

"It would be difficult for me to be someone I am not, mademoiselle," he said, his ever-soft voice piercing through the noise around them.

"Agreed," Éponine said, still looking anywhere but his face, "So I must ask, monsieur, for you to stop calling me mademoiselle. I am far from a bourgeois girl worthy of such a title..."

"But you are still a lady," he protested, "And, tell me, mademoiselle, what am I to call you if not by a title of which you most certainly  _are_  worthy?" Éponine looked at him then, for his voice had been so much firmer, so much more insistent.

His eyes were bright, she realised, and so very blue. He had a small smile on his face, as if he had just accomplished something.

"Why must you be ever so consistent in knowing more than you should, monsieur?" she asked quietly, "And why must you be so indirect? So timid and yet... confidently so. Who are you?"

"Jean Prouvaire," he said, his smile widening as he held out his hand, "You may call me Jehan."

"I didn't ask your name," she said, pushing his hand away as she walked past him and into the street, "I asked who you are. They mean different things, and therefore require different answers."

Jehan smiled at the wall that he was now faced with, before turning around and jogging to catch up with the still-limping Éponine, "I fear I know more about you than I do myself," he told her as he walked at her side down the street, through the now clearing market.

"Then I would suggest that you keep your nose out of my business," she said enigmatically, "There are things in my life that you are better off not knowing."

"But you make them so obvious, so clear!" he protested, "You try so hard to hide it, but in doing so you just make it more prominent. Not to the average eye," he added hastily as she pulled her shawl around herself tighter, "But to an eye that notices things. To certain people who  _look_  rather than just  _seeing_."

"Seeing is not so bad," Éponine said, "It keeps you out of trouble that you should have no part in."

"Oh, but doesn't it make life much more boring?!" he asked rhetorically, laughing at the very idea of it.

"What is your business with me, monsieur?" Éponine demanded, stopping suddenly in front of Jehan with her arms crossed and a determined look on her face, "You seem to know everything about me, though you won't spare me any details. You say I tell you without meaning to, that you  _look_. So, tell me, Jean Prouvaire... what do you see?"

Jehan considered before answering; she was asking something that required so much depth, so much detail... how could he sum it all up in the way she was inadvertently asking him to?

He smiled slightly as he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

"I see the world," Jehan murmured, "In a way I have never seen it before."

And with that, he walked away, leaving Éponine standing in the street, confused as to what his words meant, as Jehan grabbed hold of the inspiration she had offered him.


	3. Who Are You?

Éponine knew that she was doing something that she shouldn't. More than that, she knew that it was completely pointless and utterly stupid. And even further, she had no idea why she was doing it.

But she found herself following the little man who confused her so, and to where she was following him she didn't have a clue. All she knew was that she had a burning desire to find out more about him.

*. . .*

Jehan was practically shaking as he walked away from Éponine. He didn't know where his little speech had come from (usually he was only ever good with words when putting them to paper), but it had certainly gotten him a reaction. The rush of it had almost left him exhausted, and he walked slowly back towards his apartment.

He was so lost in his own little world as he walked that he didn't see the figure following him, like a shadow blending in with the shade cast by the now sinking sun. Perhaps, if he had, he would have found more inspiration in the way Éponine slipped through the crowded streets of Paris.

*. . .*

It wasn't until Jehan was climbing the stairs in his block of flats when he realised that he was being followed. Try as she might, not even Éponine could disguise the sound of her bare feet padding up the wooden stairs, her injured foot causing every other step to be heavier. Jehan glanced around, just about catching her eye, but carried on walking.

He turned the corner at the top of the stairs and walked down the corridor, his flat being the door right at the end. He reached the door and paused for a moment, listening out for Éponine's soft footsteps but hearing nothing. As he put the key in the lock and unlocked the door, he worked out a plan in his head (or tried to at least). Pushing the door open, he took a deep breath.

"Would you like to come in, mademoiselle?" He waited for a moment, before seeing Éponine's head appear around the corner. She was frowning.

"You knew I was following you?" she asked, walking up the corridor to join him in the doorway. He smiled slightly.

"Not until we were walking up the stairs," Jehan told her, "Now... after you?" he stood aside, leaving the doorway free for her to enter. Éponine rolled her eyes, pushing him into his flat before her, and then following him in carefully. If she had learnt anything from her experiences on the street, it was to never enter someone's flat unless you were sure of their motives, and that said motives didn't involve anything inappropriate. Éponine had promised herself a long time ago that she would never sell her body, no matter how hungry she was.

But this man fascinated her so. Thus, she followed him in, hoping desperately that she would get some answers.

*. . .*

Jehan was firstly completely caught offguard by Éponine shoving him into his flat; he counted himself lucky that he hadn't tripped and ended up sprawled on the floor. But, after recovering from the shock of it, he realised that his heart was racing, and Éponine was lingering in the doorway. The former of these occurrences was completely unexpected, and Jehan couldn't for the life of him explain it.

The latter of the occurrences struck Éponine as completely new; never, in her rather short but experienced life, had she found herself scared. Not of the man who was now standing in front of her, looking slightly lost, and not of the setting she found herself in. She was scared of the consequences of letting this man get to her. And the very fact that this scared her did little to calm her anxiety.

*. . .*

Jehan honestly didn't know what to do. On the one hand, if he so much as opened his mouth he would no doubt start spewing random words that would make so little sense that he may as well have been doing interpretive dance. On the other hand... if he didn't talk to her, if he didn't try to understand her the way she wanted him to see her, then he would probably explode.

Éponine didn't want to go in. She knew that she probably wouldn't receive anything that would change her life dramatically, and anything that a monsieur Jean Prouvaire had to say was probably of little importance. Yet she couldn't bear to go another minute without finding out exact who this man truly was.

With this is mind, she stepped further into the room, pushing the door shut behind her, the click of it closing snapping Jehan out of his day.

"My apologies," he mumbled, I'm being incredibly rude..."

"No, no," Éponine said hastily, "Don't worry. I... I probably shouldn't even be here anyway. I have work and-"

"And that work will, no doubt, end with some old bourgeois man being a few francs short by the time he reaches his next destination." Jehan said quietly, a small smile forming. Éponine shrugged.

"You do what you have to if you want to survive," she reasoned, "Paris is an unfair place to live. You of all people should realise that."

"I tend to stay away from thinking about that side of the revolution," Jehan said, "A little positivity never hurt anyone. And it's beneficial for one of the Amis, at least, to see the good in the world. Not everything and everyone is bad, you know." Éponine frowned.

"Your views are strange," she stated, stepping closer to him, looking down at her bare toes, "I've never met someone who sees Paris as good and fights for a better one."

"There is always room for improvement," Jehan smiled more, "You just have to identify the areas that need your urgent attention before tending to those which are good without intervention."

"How very poetic," Éponine smirked, "Although, I hear that that is something of a speciality of yours."

"I've improved in recent days, if I say so myself," Jehan told her, "You've done something to my self-conscious, Éponine, and I'm at a loss as to what you've done and how you've done it. Though, I must say, I am eternally grateful."

"You know so much about me," Éponine said, closing the gap between them as she took another step towards the curious man, "And yet that is the first I know about you. Which leaves me with two questions, monsieur: first of all, who are you?"

"You know who I am," Jehan interrupted, "You wander the streets alone, Mademoiselle Thénardier, and you hear things that no one else hears. So  _you_  tell  _me_ : what have you deducted?"

"Well, here's the thing, monsieur," Éponine said quietly, going up on her toes so that her eyes were level with his, "You're quiet. Unheard of on the streets. Unless you know where to go, and who to ask. People know you not by name, but by nature. They look out for you. Yes, Enjolras with his speeches and ideals, and Marius with his supposed sacrifices, they catch the eyes and the minds of the people. But you catch their hearts. The man who can be so optimistic, so happy in such an oppressed world. You give them some hope alongside what Enjolras thinks they can achieve."

Jehan was struck speechless; never had he even imagined that he had made an impact on the people by simply being himself. Yes, he went out across Paris, with Enjolras' perfectly constructed speeches that he was supposed to stick to no matter what, and yes he went around encouraging people to join the revolution, handing out leaflets and shouting 'Vive la France' alongside his friends. But being himself was what had made him known.

"I believe it is your turn to answer my question now, monsieur." Éponine said quietly, the heels of her feet falling back onto the ground, "I know what the people think. I know what you do. I know your name, and your nature. But who  _are_  you, Jehan?"

It took him a while to answer, because who was he, really? When was he ever himself? When he was alone, certainly. There was no reason for him to not be himself when he was alone. Because, despite his more commonly seen exterior, Jean Prouvaire was a confident man, who knew what he wanted from life; he wanted happiness, and fulfilment, and would do what was necessary to achieve it.

When around his friends, however, it was different. They wanted different things to him. 'Justice' they called it, all of them willing to fight and to die for the cause. Though Jehan was also willing to fight and die for his country, it wasn't for 'justice'. For there to be justice, there is a requirement of someone to blame, someone to hold accountable for the state of their country. Jehan didn't see the point in this. Enjolras spoke of a day when they would fight, when force would be used if necessary to achieve what must be achieved. But why, Jehan often wondered, is there a need for violence when fighting suffering, when it would only ensure that more suffering is to come?

"I am..." he muttered finally, "I'm someone who wants to help. But not just the poor, or the oppressed. I want to help my country, and my friends, to see that... violence isn't the way forward. But you already know that, don't you?" reaching out slowly, he traced the outline of a bruise on her forearm, and she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, reconsidering.

"How did you know?" she whispered finally, "I hide it. No one else has ever noticed before. Why you?"

"I've already told you," he said, stepping away from her, "I look as opposed to just seeing. You should tell someone about it, Éponine. Someone who you can go to when it happens so that... so that in times of need, you know you're not alone." Éponine scoffed, looking away from the man.

"What good will it do?" she asked, her tone cold, "Because, in the end, monsieur, we are all alone. We can surround ourselves with people who we could be deluded into thinking are our friends, but can we ever be sure who to trust, who to care about? Caring makes you weaker; it gives you more to lose. People use it against you. If you don't care about anything or anyone, then you have nothing to lose."

"That's where you're wrong," Jehan said, "Because something to care about means something to fight for. If you care about nothing, then what's the point in living? The things we care about make us whole. Without passion, nothing would ever get achieved. So... stay with me." The final part of his speech had come out of his mouth before he had ever had the chance to think about it. Éponine, who had still been looking away from him, whipped her head around, turning to face him once more. He met her fiery eyes with calm ones of his own, and watched amusedly as she gaped.

"Stay here?" she asked, "With you? You must be completely out of your mind! I can't just leave home and move in with you! We're not together, we're not even friends, we-"

"We probably know more about each other than we do about ourselves," Jehan said. What annoyed Éponine most was that even she couldn't deny it.

"But I can't just leave... my father, he-" she stopped herself from going any further. She had never admitted anything about what happened within the rooms that she called home.

"You father isn't worthy of your company," Jehan insisted, stepping closer to her again and taking her hands in his, "You are clever, Éponine. You are clever, and interesting, and inspirational, and you have opened my eyes in a way no one ever has before. I want to help you, Éponine-"

"I don't need your help!" Éponine snapped, interrupting him before he could go any further, pulling her hands out of his angrily, "I was fine... I  _am_  fine as I am! I don't need your interfering! Why couldn't you have just kept out of my business?!" she looked away, from him, her arms crossing stubbornly, her face scarily determined.

Jehan just smiled sadly at her, "You know that you deserve better than the life that you're living," he stated it, not leaving any room for her to argue, "And you know that one day... it's not going to be a few bruises, or a sprained ankle. One day, your father is going to snap, and it's going to be so much worse. Just know, Mademoiselle Éponine Thénardier... I'll be here."

And with that, he disappeared into another room in his apartment, closing the door softly behind him and leaving Éponine alone to contemplate on what he had just said.

* * *

Éponine left Jehan's flat a few moments after Jehan had shut the other door, hurrying as much as she could with a sprained ankle, desperate to get herself out of the block of flats that suddenly seemed to be suffocating her.

She burst out into the fresh air of the early evening, leaning against the wall as she caught her breath, trying desperately to slow her racing heart. The way Jehan knew how she was feeling, and that he know what would happen if she stayed with her father and his gang... the way he knew infuriated her. More so than when he had appeared weak, and timid. The sudden change of personality from him was what confused her the most.

She found herself wondering if she knew anything about the strange little man at all.

*. . .*

Jehan knew that he had gone about it the wrong way. He knew so much about the little gamine that he should have realised that she wouldn't simply move in without a second thought. But, he realised, a part of him had actually thought that she might.

It was a difficult situation, one that he would never have dreamed of picturing himself in, and one that he couldn't bear to simply let go. And he made a promise to himself then, as he sat at the desk in his bedroom, a blank piece if parchment in front of him, nothing in his mind that was remotely to do with poetry.

He promised that he would help Éponine Thénardier if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Little did he know that his promise would be fulfilled sooner rather than later. That night, with no meeting scheduled, Éponine had no choice but to go out hunting for food, her stomach growling viciously after days without anything close to a proper meal. Her father and his gang were all out, no doubt waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, all of them desperate to release some pent-up anger that they had acquired during the day.

At sixteen, Éponine currently had little to do with her father's schemes other than petty theft and being his punch bag when things went wrong. He promised her that that would soon change.

But Éponine found herself with the title of 'unsuspecting victim' later that night. It was just about dark, with men still drifting in and out of various cafes and restaurants, the alleys and backstreets of Paris deserted.

Éponine would later curse herself for her stupidity; she had learnt long ago that when on the streets, you have to keep yourself alert at all time, no matter how tired or hungry you may be. But Éponine had had a long day, and it didn't even occur to her to watch out for what was creeping in the shadows.

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you that it's not a good idea for little girls to be out so later?" a sneering voice made her jump as she walked down an alleyway, and she turned around quickly, almost losing her balance as she put too much wait on her bad foot.

"Montparnasse," she muttered, "Leave me alone."

"No can do, Éppy," his sneering voice gripped at her heart; there was something in his tone that made her want to run for her life, but something kept her rooted to the spot, "You see, your Papa doesn't think you're doing enough to help our little... organisation."

"I steal from normal people every day for you and your ridiculous gang," Éponine snapped, "God knows how many times I should have been arrested. Isn't that enough for you?!"

"No. It's not." Another voice carried down from the opposite end of the alley, and Éponine found herself trapped.

"You see, Éppy, things go wrong for us quite often..." Montparnasse started advancing towards her, and Éponine instinctively backed away, before remembering that her father was waiting at the other end of the alley, "We get mad, you see..."

"We need something to take out all of this anger on..." her father joined in, his voice almost gleeful, "And a stranger really isn't as entertaining as taking it out on someone who needs to learn their lesson..." Éponine could see where the conversation was leading, and she didn't like it one little bit. Part of her wished she had heeded Jehan's words and grabbed the chance to stay with him whilst she could. The other wanted to curse him for jinxing her situation, somehow causing her to be in her current circumstances.

"And you need to learn your lesson, Éponine." She could feel Montparnasse's breath on her face, and she shrank back even further, bumping into another body behind her. And Éponine's thoughts drifted once again to Jehan Prouvaire, and she wished that he was there to help her.

Jehan found himself with trouble sleeping. It wasn't unusual; he often had ideas for poems, pieces of music and artwork drifting through his mind, and more than once he had gotten out of bed in the early hours of the morning to write it all down in an attempt to clear his mind.

But this time it was different. For his mind wasn't alive with inspiration, but with thoughts of a certain gamine who hadn't left his mind since she had left in the early hours of the evening. She certainly was a riddle that was much harder the crack than he had first thought.

So, unable to write his thoughts down in a way that he deemed appropriate (he had already tried to fit them into verse, and had failed magnificently), he paced around his bedroom, hoping to wear himself out enough to be able to sleep.

Eventually he crawled back into bed, his mind still active with thoughts of Éponine, but his body too tired to pace for much longer, the late night it had been when he started to pace now transformed into the early hours of the morning.

Just as he was beginning to drift off to sleep, a quite knocking sound alerted him. He lifted his head off the pillow, listening intently and finding the banging to be becoming more insistent by the second. He rushed out of bed, the fact that there was someone at the front door now occurring to him. Utterly confused as to who would contact him at such a ridiculous hour, he opened the door to find Éponine leaning heavily on the doorframe.

"You were right," she said quietly, new bruises and cuts littering the skin that was visible, her left wrist cradled to her chest, "He snapped."

She then collapsed forward, Jehan catching her in his arms, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do now.


End file.
